Free Dead Wrong by Allen Wyler Page B

on the move again. At the moment, Sikes had more important things to do than pursue him. Let his team do that. The more pressing task was to stage the scene for local law enforcement. He cautiously peeked into the crawl space. Everything appeared the same as it had moments ago, so he reached out and grasped Washington ankles and tugged. Fucker weighted a ton.
    After muscling Washington down onto the desk, Sikes searched his pockets but didn’t find his weapon. He flicked on a small brass desk lamp and angled it into the crawl space. Not there either, which was pretty much what he expected.
    Perfect. When captured, McCarthy would be holding the gun that killed the receptionist. Ballistics would support Sikes’s version of events.
    He hated losing Washington—they’d become tight during the past year working together—but his death served a very useful purpose: It justified blowing McCarthy’s traitorous ass to hell and back.
    After brushing dust from Washington’s clothes, he positioned the lifeless body in the hallway. Next, he exchanged the bullet-damaged ceiling tiles in McCarthy’s office with identical ones from the small lavatory at the end of the hall where they’d never be noticed. Finished, he stood back to inspect the scene and rehearse his story. Then, to be absolutely sure of not making an error, he reenacted the story from the spot he’d claim McCarthy fired. The angles and body position seemed perfect.
    Now satisfied, he phoned hospital security. They, he figured, would immediately notify the Seattle police. But because the case involved stolen, highly sensitive classified material, Colonel Cunningham would intervene to squelch any further forensic investigation by the locals.
    He checked his watch. Lewis and Womack should be closing in on McCarthy any minute now. Truth be told, he was amazed they hadn’t already called in to report capturing him. After all, McCarthy was a terrified amateur and running for his life. Easy pickings.
    With the situation now under control, he allowed his rage to boil over. He was furious. Not just because McCarthy stole Washington’s weapon and fired at him, but because Washington said the office girl had left for the day. When they had entered the office and seen it empty, Washington assumed the staff closed the office early for the long weekend. Now looking back on everything, nothing had gone as Washington had anticipated. Starting with McCarthy not arriving at his office first thing in the morning. Had things unfolded according to plan, Colonel Cunningham would know exactly what McCarthy had done with the stolen information and McCarthy would be dead. Washington’s fault from beginning to end.
    Well, not entirely. McCarthy had to shoulder a substantial portion of the blame too. Sikes would make damn sure he paid with his life. The traitorous bastard!

9
     
    S ARAH HAMILTON COULDN’T shake the amorphous, gnawing dread deep inside her chest, a warning of something terrible about to happen, although she didn’t know who or what it might involve. Yet the intensity made it seem it would involve someone she cared about.
    She knew the clinical term for the feeling: free-floating anxiety. But objectifying it did little to lessen the effect on her.
    In retrospect, subtler symptoms had been festering since finding out about Bobbie Baker’s forged Valium prescription. She doubted that knowing who gave it to Bobbie would relieve her dread. Still, it was worth a try. Besides, she needed to find that out anyway.
    She checked the time. 1:15. Still too early. Last time she called the CICU they hadn’t drawn the blood gas to determine if the intensivists could pull Bobbie’s endotracheal tube.
    She punched four digits into the security lock for the doctors’ lounge. The deadbolt released with a metallic snap and she opened the door. At the coffee bar, she filled a Styrofoam cup with steaming water, selected a bag of green tea, then scanned the area for a place to sit by herself